


Poor, Poor Dave Brown, Unluckiest Man in the Whole Damn Town

by kateyboosh, Terrantalen



Series: Dave Brown's Eternal Torture [1]
Category: The Mighty Boosh RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Banter, Because They're Horny, Blowjobs, Cut And Come Again, Dave Brown Is A Fucking Saint Who Deserves Better, He's Only Ever Given Us Nice Things, Implied Romance, Julian Likes It, M/M, Noel Never Shuts Up, Rad Collab, Rage Wank, Rimming, Seriously Why Did We Torture Dave Like This?, Surrealist Dirty Talk, Switching, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, The Boys Are Bad Friends, banter as a love language, sorry dave, this is normal, wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:20:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27903613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kateyboosh/pseuds/kateyboosh, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Terrantalen/pseuds/Terrantalen
Summary: It’s just an ordinary night at an ordinary hotel on tour with the Boosh boys. Sure, Noel and Julian are being obnoxious (what else is new) and sure, Mike gets real dodgy as soon as they find out they’re one room short, but surely, that’s nothing for mild-mannered, sweet, lovely Dave to worry about... is it?
Relationships: Noel Fielding/Julian Barratt
Series: Dave Brown's Eternal Torture [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2058648
Comments: 18
Kudos: 16
Collections: Trash Triplets Crackmas 2020: It's All About Range





	Poor, Poor Dave Brown, Unluckiest Man in the Whole Damn Town

**Author's Note:**

  * For [starsonthebrow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsonthebrow/gifts).



> For our dearest partner in crack. Thank you for your encouragement, support, love, friendship, knowledge, and all-around wonderfulness. We cherish you, and hope you enjoy part one of your gift.

It starts going wrong the moment they pull into the hotel parking lot. 

Well. It was going wrong before that, but as the building gets closer through the smeary windscreen and Dave sees the little look that passes between Noel and Julian, it feels unexplainably wrong. Like walking in a crowd and sensing eyes on the back of your neck, and turning around at a count of three to see no one behind you. It feels… unsettling. Like things are about to go wrong. Worse than wrong. 

Although. 

That feeling could have been magnified by the horrendous, neverending line of conversation that's been going round and round like the bus wheels since they piled on. 

They've been talking about how much is the "right amount of tongue" for Howard to slip Old Gregg for ages.

They sound so business-like, but at the same time, Noel's got his tongue in the corner of his mouth and he's squirming like an excited puppy, and Julian's gaze is leveled on Noel so tightly that Dave's afraid Julian might bore holes in him. Noel keeps on looking at Julian, though, like he hasn't got a worry in the world, and fidgeting, spreading his thighs and tucking his ankles together. 

The intensity is freaking Dave out a bit, and he's sure that when he gets up to his room and flops into bed, he'll hear bits of the discussion echoing in his ears.

_"You want me to provide you with a powerful tonguing?"_

_"Yeah! Really get in there. I wanna feel like a sea slug is trying to get down my throat."_

_"Hollow you out like a used cornetto cone?"_

_"Like you wanna use me as a finger puppet."_

But none of that matters. Dave is mere moments away from getting off this bus and into a bed, tucked away from everyone in the world for a much-needed rest.

Noel and Julian are the first off the bus, the two of them so wrapped up hammering out Old Gregg and tongue and, oh god, now _arse-grabbing_ (“Grab onto my arse, hard, yeah? It was a little weak last night. You gotta really show ‘em what Howard’s going to give Old Gregg.”) that they don’t even seem to notice him or Rich or Mike.

“Going to be good to get away from that,” Mike says. Dave agrees. 

He envisions a quiet room, with his own telly that he can watch whatever he wants on, a nice big bed all to himself, some privacy, and, finally, some fucking peace and quiet.

“What? I’m going to miss it,” Rich says. “Ooooh, smooches, and squeezins, and butt touchin’! Pretty soon, they’re going to decide Howard should be blowing Old Gregg behind the curtain.”

Mike makes a face.

By the time they’ve walked up to the counter, Julian is already talking to the concierge. She’s shaking her head, saying the word _sorry_. “It looks like there was a mistake. I don’t know how this happened, Mr. Barratt, but it looks like we’ve got four rooms for your group and not five.”

“Well, isn’t there anything that you can do? An extra that we could get?”

The concierge types something into her computer. She shakes her head, “No, I’m sorry. We’re full. There’s a wedding tonight, and we’ve also got a lot of people staying for an electronics conference over the weekend.”

“Well, damn,” Julian says. He looks at everyone, “Sounds like a couple of us are going to have to bunk up in one room.”

There is no way that Dave is volunteering for that. He wants a night on his own bad enough to kill for it.

Mike is just staring at Julian with the flattest expression Dave has ever seen him wear. His nonverbal judo can overcome just about anything when he decides to use it. 

Julian doesn’t even glance at Rich. He turns his attention to Noel. “Share, then?”

Noel smiles a huge, goofy grin at Julian, like he’s looking at his favorite person in the whole world. Julian is smiling back, a sly, wolfish smile that isn’t as obviously besotted, but is still a bit much to aim at someone who is your double act partner. 

Whatever. They’re always like that. It’s just their vibe, that more-than-just-mates, are-they-aren’t-they vibe. It doesn’t mean anything. They’re almost definitely just mates. They just enjoy snogging on stage and eye-fucking each other at every possible opportunity…

Julian turns back to the concierge. “We’ll make do,” he says affably. 

“Sorry again,” she says. “I honestly don’t know how this could have happened. I’ll see if we can’t credit—”

“It’s fine,” Noel interjects. “Who knows? Might be the tour manager made a mistake or something. We don’t mind. Julian and I usually end up spending half the night in each other’s rooms anyway, don’t we, Ju?”

The concierge looks between the two of them, then blinks. It’s like she’s reset. She starts apologizing again, and there is more reassuring, and then, finally, at last, room keys are given out.

Mike watches the key cards hit the counter like a poker player watching the flop in a game of Texas Hold ‘Em. “Yeah, what are the room numbers?” he asks. 

“304, 305, 314, and 315.”

“I’m 304,” Mike says, grabbing his key. “Rich, you 305?”

“I was thinking—”

Mike hands him the key card for 305. “Great. See you ballbags in the morning.” He walks away without looking back.

“Have a good night, sleep tight, and don’t let the bedbugs bite, Davey boy!” Rich shout-says, waggling his eyebrows. He hurries to catch up to Mike, and then they’re both gone. 

No goodnight for Noel and Julian, apparently, which is a bit… odd. But, then again. Rich is a weird guy. And anyway, Noel and Julian are lost in their own world.

“Want a drink, Dave?” Julian asks, looking instead at Noel.

“Yeah, have a drink with us,” Noel agrees, with his back actually turned toward Dave so that he can twirl the end of his hair at Julian.

“No thanks,” Dave replies, first, because he doesn’t, and second because it’s obvious that no one actually wants him to say yes. Dave says goodnight and makes his way to the lift.

It’s sort of shit, this hotel. The impression is only strengthened by the teal and mauve patterned carpet in the hallway and the out-of-order ice machine lurking in a poorly lit alcove that he passes on the way to his room. Usually, they stay in places that don’t look like they last saw the touch of an interior designer in 1992, but, again, who really cares? Not Dave. All he needs is a bed and some walls, and everything will be just fine.

He does feel a bit bad for the wedding party, though. Must be pretty skint, the bride and groom.

Dave has about thirty minutes where he thinks everything is going to be alright. The bed isn’t the best and the telly seems to be stuck on BBC3, but that’s not the worst thing to be stuck on. He’s sitting on the chair in his room, reading, when he hears it.

The beep of an electric lock and the sound of the door opening. It’s so loud that he thinks, at first, someone has come into his room, even though, plainly, no one has, but then he hears a breathless laugh, and a low voice saying, “Like a chill breeze,” and he realizes it’s Noel and Julian and they must be in their room.

The walls must be paper fucking thin.

At first, there’s the sounds of jackets hitting the mattress, and then it’s the neverending conversation about Howard and Old Fucking Gregg filtering through, back again for an encore performance. Dave thinks that at this point, they should have brought one of the BBC Four documentary crews along with them. They could have tracked every permutation, every twist and turn and evolution of the joke, every detail and change and bit of inane chitchat. It would have been hours long, and made fascinating viewing for comedy buffs or people with insomnia looking for an all-natural sleep aid.

Dave dogears his page and shuts the book when Noel pants out, “Oh, Howard, pick me up in your big, strong arms. Pin me down and hold me, Howard. Blindfold me and tie me up and spank me, Howard!” 

The fuck? That’s not part of the stage show.

Dave freezes as he hears heels and then boots thumping on carpet.

Are they…?

Christ, they are. They’re chasing each other around the room like newlyweds.

He can tell when Julian catches Noel. There’s a squeal, and then a low chuckle from Julian, and then Dave hears fumbling and a zip and there’s the thump of _Julian’s jeans_ hitting the floor.

Dave catches his reflection in the telly screen. What the actual fuck? 

Dave reassures himself. Maybe they’re just getting ready to go to sleep. Undressing to put on pajamas and stay several feet away from each other and sleep, not touching.

“Oh, Howard,” Noel breathes.

 _Oh, Christ_ , Dave thinks. _What is going on?_

Old Gregg and Howard tonguing practice is what’s going on, apparently. There are soft, wet noises, lips meeting and deeper breathing. 

That’s not too far out of the ordinary for those two, but Dave’s still stuck on why Julian needs to be sans trousers for this part. 

He hears them break apart. “How was that?” Julian asks.

"Mmm, s'good. Little more tongue," Noel says.

There’s more kissing. Dave slides down in his bed. He knows moving a few inches away from the wall won’t help with the noise level, but it makes him feel slightly better being further away from the action.

“Like that?”

"Little more." They've broken apart so Noel can direct Julian. 

“Like that?”

Then, a mumbled string of words and a squeak that can only mean "little more," and Dave’s not sure how his ears are doing it, but he can hear Julian’s tongue licking into Noel’s waiting mouth like it’s in quadraphonic sound.

Dave rolls his eyes. Idiots, the pair of them. Go on, have your cheeky little snog and get into bed so we can all wrap this day up, then.

“Ju,” Noel pants, “you’ve got to-”

“I know,” Julian says. “Like we discussed.” He sounds mostly unruffled by what they’re doing, a consummate professional. Noel sounds like he’s enjoying it very much, on the other hand. 

Dave hears the soft thump of Noel’s t-shirt hitting the carpet. He frowns. 

There’s the sound of a hand sliding over fabric, and Noel humming as Julian apparently pulls him closer. “Be a lot easier to practice if your arse wasn’t otherwise engaged in the tightest denim in all of-”

Noel doesn’t need to be told twice. There’s a creak as he sits on the bed and starts peeling his jeans off, possibly over his boots, he’s going so fast. He’s back over to Julian in record time, their lips smacking together loudly. “Squeeze,” he mumbles against Julian’s mouth.

Dave recoils. 

"Oh, yeah, Ju. Right back there. Like," there is a wet-sounding kiss, "yeah, like that. That's exactly how Howard should," Noel gasps as Julian possibly intensifies his goosing, "Mmmm, Old Gregg..."

He doesn’t like where this is going.

Clearly, they’re not going to be half-naked, or close to fully naked in Noel’s case, onstage in front of a bunch of screaming teenagers at the end of the show. This is something other than brainstorming, something other than polishing a joke up to gleaming perfection. This is something more than rehearsal. 

The hair on the back of Dave’s neck stands up.

No. It’s not. It’s comedy. It’s for jokes. It’s funny, ha ha, as always, the two of them toeing the line and slipping over, but always coming back, zipping their trousers and straightening their shirts when someone unexpected enters the room-

Oh, Christ. 

No. It’s pure, hilarious comedy.

The kiss ends and he can hear Noel’s sweaty, flushed smirk through the wall. “Think you can do that onstage every night, old man?”

“I’ll come at you, sir,” Julian jokes. “I’ll come at you like a-”

Dave coughs to block out the response, and they’re kissing again when he clears his throat.

After a time, they break apart. _See? All comedy, all for jokes._

“Good rehearsal,” Julian says. “Mmm,” Noel agrees. He mutters something about it being time for “the real show,” and Dave frowns. He checks the clock at his bedside table. He hasn’t fallen into some sort of time portal that opens due to shock. The next show isn’t for hours, so he’s not sure what Noel’s on about.

 _What else is new?_ he thinks. He laughs to himself. 

Later, when his sense of humor has taken a kicking, he remembers this moment. _Just for comedy. Just for jokes._

Eventually, it goes blessedly silent. Dave clicks off the fuzzy telly and the lamp on the bedside table and slides into the stiff, scratchy, unfamiliar hotel sheets. He just manages to get his eyes closed when he hears them. Again.

Oh, Christ. 

He knows the first soft moan is Noel. Maybe he's snuck off for a cheeky wank in the washroom, all the teasing and joking they'd been doing ten minutes ago too much for him to go straight to sleep. Dave can only hope he'll be quick. 

Dave grimaces when he hears a string of words in a low tone that he knows is Julian, and then a little gasp from Noel.

Something thuds against the wall. Maybe they're fighting, Dave hopes with wild optimism. It's come down to fisticuffs and Julian is pinning Noel to the wall in a way that isn’t— 

“Fuck. Julian,” Noel moans. “Oh fuck.” 

Another low sound. Julian. It sounds like his mouth is full… 

Dave hops out of bed and flips open his suitcase. He tries to ignore the noises from next door as he upends half his clothes onto the floor in the search for his headphones. He pops them on, then hits play and thanks god that the last thing he was listening to was Raw Power.

It works well for him, the Stooges blasting in both ears and meeting in the direct center of his brain, blotting out every transgression taking place on the opposite side of the paper thin wall. He pictures static, white noise, vibration, planes taking off, explosions, atom bombs to fill the gaps as the tracks change. 

He gets about halfway through the album and decides to chance it. Surely - _surely_ \- they have to be finished and asleep by now. 

Noel's moan is a high-pitched "uhnnnn" that cuts off when Julian seals his lips over Noel's mouth. Dave groans. He questions his life and his choices and the universe that put him here when he fumbles his headphones back on and Iggy's singing Penetration.

He presses the skip button, but the damn thing sticks and it won’t fucking skip ahead. He keeps pressing frantically but nothing happens. Iggy hisses _come and take me_ and then the batteries die. 

Next door, it’s gone from high-pitched moans to low grunts interspersed with swears and utterances of _like that_ and _Christ, yes_ , and _harder_. 

Fuck everything. He hates all of it. 

He grabs his pillow and jams it around his ears, but it doesn’t do anything to stifle the drum-like pounding that can only be the headboard against the wall, or Noel's voice. “Yes, yes, yes,” Noel chants, “oh fuck me, Ju, yes!” 

“Is that good?” 

“So good, so, so good, more, Ju,” Noel wails. “Oh, fuck, bite my cock off!” 

Dave is in hell. He’s actually gone to hell. Why? What did he do wrong? To his knowledge, he's never killed anyone.

God, he'd like to, though. He really would like to. A little bit of plaster actually falls down from the ceiling onto his forehead just then, no doubt motivated to make its fucking escape from the insanity going on next door. 

"Ju, fucking hell," Noel gasps. "Jesus, Julian, just right there. Right there." 

Dave finds himself trying to analyze what Noel means, if he's close or if Julian's hitting that spot inside of him just right, or- 

No. He's not. He's not interested, he doesn't care, he just wants it to end. 

It's not ending, though. Julian, that fucker, is slowing down. The headboard is still thumping against the wall, just at a less alarming pace. Dave's sure it will still break through the wall, but at least it'll do it at a rate that will allow him to pick his clothing back up, shove it in his suitcase, and exit the room to call a cab and fuck off to the other side of the world. 

"Ju-yin," Noel pants, "you're so fucking big," and boy, did Dave _not_ need to hear that. 

"Not bad yourself," Julian growls out. "So tight. Come on, wanna hear you." 

Dave closes his eyes and wishes for oblivion.

“I love your cock,” Noel moans. The headboard slams against the wall. “Fuck, you feel like—” a percussive, singular thrust. Noel groans, “—a fucking lorry in me.” Another slam of the headboard against the wall, another wordless moan. 

Dave is reduced to counting the BPM of the headboard. About forty-eight. 

He glances over at the complimentary hotel pen on his nightstand. He could probably stab his own eardrums with it. Permanently deafen himself. 

It doesn’t seem totally unreasonable as Noel grits out, “You fuck like a fucking elephant.” 

This time, when the headboard hits the wall, it’s accompanied by Julian growling, “I’m going to break you, you little fucking twiglet.” 

“Do it, Ju. Break me in fucking _half_. Right down the middle. Christ.” 

Dave is as near to crying as he's been in years. 

Noel holds up his end of the dirty talk admirably, stuttering out some of the filthiest things Dave's ever heard as Julian drives into him. "Come on, fucking impale me," is a highlight. He doesn't speak for long, though, his speech dissolving into incoherent whimpers. 

Julian seems to like that. He fills in the gaps as more bits of plaster fall onto Dave's pillow. 

"Can you feel me, Noel?" 

A heated groan, the headboard rocketing into the wall. 

"Where? Here?" 

A tortured little moan, more slams. 

A growled "How about here?" with a gasped, "oh, fuck, please," hot on its heels. 

Three rapid slams are followed by "God, fuck, Julian, here, _here_. I can fucking feel you in my throat, I can feel you in my hair, _Christ_ , please, Julian." 

Dave's snapped out of his absolute misery when their mattress starts to squeak. It's a nice counterpoint to the soundtrack of his suffering.

Surely, they’ve been fucking for an hour. Surely, no one can fuck for as long as they’ve been fucking, not as successfully as they seem to have been, without one of them coming. 

It’s possible they might die out of sheer exhaustion. 

Dave imagines the headline. Imagines having to explain it at an inquest. “They fucked one another to death,” he imagines himself saying to a shocked coroner. He imagines the hordes of weeping fans at the joint funeral. The retrospective at the NME Awards. The clips they’d play under some saccharine piece of music. All the clips of them in interviews, looking at each other like a couple of idiots who would be perfectly capable of fucking themselves into the afterlife. 

Good news is, at least _then_ it would be quiet. Noel manages to gather his wits enough to say, “Give it to me like a good boy, Ju.” 

“I’ll fuck you like a good boy.” 

“Yeah, like a good boy.” 

They chorus off one another, echoing the phrase _good boy_ so much, it sounds like they’re in a fucking dog park.

The whimpers and growls help complete the illusion. Dave wishes a Great Dane would clip through the flaking ceiling and maul him and end his misery. 

What sounds like fingernails scrabbling on the wall makes him wince. At least it seems like Noel's close now. 

"Ju..." he breathes. "Please let me come. I n-need to, please. Julian, oh my god-" 

"Not yet," Julian says. And the headboard slams against the wall, and Dave dies a little inside. 

"Julian, please," Noel whimpers. It's followed up by a shocked little gasp, his voice sounding slightly awed. "Ju, I can’t- I'm there, god, I'm there." 

Julian sighs, deep enough that Dave hears it through the wall. He sounds... shaky? "Okay, alright." 

Dave can only pray that he's nearly there too. He just needs to make it through Noel's... moment, and then Julian's, and then... 

He doesn't know what. A lifetime of therapy can’t erase this one night.

The headboard bangs against the wall. “Oh god, Julian!” Noel screams loud enough to be heard across the Channel. Julian has picked up the pace again. “I can’t, I can’t anymore, please, please, Ju!” 

“Have it,” Julian says, his voice low. 

Dave jumps as an inhuman wail pierces through the wall. It sounds like someone has dropped a hot flat iron onto Noel’s balls. He cries out, wailing over the steady drum of the headboard as it accelerates.

Noel is practically sobbing. “It’s so much,” he pants, “I still… I still want you so much. I want you so deep in me, Ju. I want you there forever.” 

Please don’t let that actually be an option. Please let Julian be an actual human being with a normal cock that has to spunk. Soon. 

“Get me pregnant, Ju!” Noel demands out of nowhere. Dave can’t help laughing at that. 

Julian, though, doesn’t seem to think it’s funny. Not in the slightest.

“Shhh, Noel,” he soothes. It’s less of a “shhh, be quiet, our mate can hear us and it’s put him off sex for the rest of his life” shhh, more of a “shhh, I know, I’d stay here forever if I could, we’d be married, and we’d have fifteen children if you had the right equipment” shhh. 

Somehow, it’s both better and worse than all of the noises and words and images that have been running through Dave’s head for the past hour. 

Dave doesn’t know why he’s surprised when he hears little sniffles filtering through the still-trembling walls amidst soft kissing noises and the ever-present slam of the headboard. “Ju-yin,” Noel breathes. His voice is wet. “Come on, do it,” he hiccups, breath catching in his chest. “Come on, for me, Ju.”

_Sweet holy Christ._

He is a bit surprised when he realizes it’s the both of them crying. 

“All for you, Noel,” Julian says through a sob. 

“Julian, yes. Come for me.”

The headboard slams, once, twice, a final time. Julian’s voice breaks. “It’s all for you,” he groans, the final _you_ drags on for a good twenty seconds, varies in pitch, wobbles like a theremin given too much to drink, then finally cuts off with a gasp and an _oh_ that sounds insanely satisfied.

Dave tries not to think about the unholy amount of… fluids… Julian has just disgorged. He really, really, really tries, yet he can’t help imagining a plate of Chinese food covered in white sauce. He hates the mental image and tries to banish it.

Of course, if he stops thinking about that, he’d have to start thinking about the sobbing and repeated utterances of _I love you_ and _you were so good_ and _I don’t know if I’m going to be able to walk tomorrow_ that are bleeding through the wall.

Dave hears fabric rustling. Then, there’s repositioning, crowned by the wet slide of Julian’s dick out of Noel’s-

No. He doesn’t hear it. He doesn’t accept it. It did not happen, there were no fluids, and he does not-

Soft kissing noises filter through and interrupt his denial. It sounds like they’re pressed chest to chest now, gasping out hitched “I love you”s at the end of every kiss-free, sniffled breath. He can practically hear Julian’s fingers combing through Noel’s hair, soothing, as if they’re scratching at his own crawling scalp.

Eventually, they quiet down. Dave hears the shower run. It’s over. 

He brushes the crumbled plaster off his bed, and turns onto his side, closing his eyes. He’s at the edge of sleep when a too-sharp whisper wakes him.

“Ju.”

“Hmm?”

Nothing. Silence. Whatever it was—

Julian chuckles, “You’re unbelievable. Again?”

No. It’s not possible. No. 

Noel giggles. “Yeah.”

Julian’s six years older, surely some sort of geriatric cock paralysis has begun to set in. Surely, it will prevent—

“Come here, you tart.”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Dave says aloud. 

“Did you hear something?” Julian's voice is muffled against Noel's skin on the other side of the wall. “Someone talking?”

“Uh uh,” Noel responds. “It’s probably someone in the hall… someone left their telly on. Don’t mind it, Ju,” he breathes. “Don’t worry about it.” His speech is slightly slurred, and he ends with a lingering “mmmm, it’s nothing” that sticks in the back of Dave’s mind and worries him. 

It’s something. It’s going to be something. He knows.

There’s a lot of slow kissing and giggling and little moans that leak through the walls after that, and at first, Dave thinks if he really tries, he can shut his eyes and will himself to pass out before the actual fireworks begin again. He can fall asleep while it’s still relatively quiet, relatively tame. He knows he can. He squeezes his eyes shut and grits his teeth and tries to force himself back into a fucking restful, peaceful, calm sleep.

Noel’s voice disrupts him. It’s soft and dreamy, warm and pink and the texture of satin sheets scattered with rose petals. He still sounds shy, though, blushing like a teenager on prom night. 

“Let’s see how long we can last, Ju-yin.” 

Dave’s eyes shoot open. 

“I want you to make love to me til dawn.”

Dave’s mind goes blank. He’s so fed up, frustrated, annoyed, disgusted, grossed out, and thoroughly over it, he can’t formulate his feelings into words. Actions are slightly easier. His hands bunch up into fists, then slide into limpness. He fixes them over his eyes firmly when he hears Julian’s simple, assured response.

“Course.” 

Dave is going to walk down to the lobby tomorrow morning with dark circles under his eyes and terror in his heart. He’s going to be present as the shell of a man. The man who was once Dave Brown will get into his gorilla suit with flashbacks of their first bout in his ears. 

_"Did you say, 'fuck me in the ass with your jazzy trumpet cock' at one point?"_

_"I don't know, prob'ly. Could you get me some water, please?"_

_Footsteps. Temporary relief that they were separating._

_"Thanks, Ju-yin.” Dainty sips, then a pause. “I c'n say it again if you liked it."_

_"Yeah, it wasn't bad. Keep it on the short list." Dave heard something being fished out of a suitcase, then Julian’s footsteps again. “Want some?” Julian asks._

_“Orange slices? Genius! Yeah, here, have some of my water.”_

_Snacks and water. Like children. Like children in the interval of a football match, with their mums looking on, chatting about unfair penalties, the kids fueling up for another half...._

But, there was no chance of an interval here. They’d finished, they were done. They _are_ done. How could they possibly fail to—

The click of the lube cap ricochets off the walls and brings Dave back to the present horror, Noel’s sharp gasp echoing, followed by a giggled, “That’s cold. Wait, what-? _Ohhhhhh_.” 

Dave winces as what sounds like Julian’s huge, lube-covered fist slides over Noel’s cock. There are noises of repositioning, more wet sounds, lips and tongues and lube, limbs sliding in sheets, tangling up in fabric and in each other. 

_Now, please, let me fall asleep now._

It’s not to be.

At first, Dave thinks Noel's just really worked up and confusing who's who when he moans out "oh, you're so tight," or maybe those two fucking idiots have finally merged into one complete human being. But then he hears Julian hum about how Noel feels so good inside of him, and oh god. It's really happening again.

The headboard hits the wall softly, a death knock to Dave’s unraveling sanity.

Noel’s a muscley little git, but Dave has no idea how he’s propelling himself into Julian so fiercely when a moment ago, he was talking about making love all night.

He hangs his head in sorrow.

“Oh, Ju,” Noel says, like he’s having the secrets of the universe revealed to him. “You feel so good. God, like having my cock in a baby’s oily tube sock. You feel like a nice warm pack of wet Hula Hoops, Christ.” 

Noel’s voice is cut off for a moment. There is moaning. Julian has evidently taken the _wet Hula Hoops_ comment as a compliment. The headboard slams louder and the muffled _Mmm_ ’s and _Ohhhh_ ’s intensify. 

It’s as good as it’s going to get. Dave knows the best he can hope for is semi-wordless fucking. Maybe, maybe, mercy will be granted him. Maybe, Noel will shut the fuck up.

“Yeah, Ju. Going to fuck you all night, like this. Like,” the slamming of the headboard speeds up, as Noel apparently decides to show rather than tell Julian what he means. “Like a fucking rabbit snorting viagra off Jagger’s cock. So hard for you, Ju-yin.”

“Do it to me, Noel. Come on, Little Man.”

Dave shudders, knowing he’s never going to be able to hear that nickname ever again without remembering this feeling of absolute horror.

The one good thing is that it can’t possibly get worse.

But Dave is wrong. 

“You want it, Ju?” Noel asks.

“Yes, come on, yes.”

Is he asking for an end or— 

“You want some of this, boy?”

Why? Why is Noel doing the Hitcher’s voice? No, it’s not possible that this is _part of it_. But it must be.

“You want me to split you open like an overripe melon, boy?” Noel growls. “Fuck you ‘til me cock is showing through your ears? Give it to you so hard, your teeth dissolve? That what you want, boy?”

“Yes,” Julian says with unhinged enthusiasm. The headboard slams into the wall so hard, Dave worries the wall might fall over. “Yes. Christ, tell me I’m dirty.”

“You’re filthy, boy. Hungering after me dessicated cockney penis like a crippled orphan after porridge. I seen how you look at it, you slag. I should fuck your eyes right outta your skull.”

“God, yes. Fuck my eyes out,” Julian agrees emphatically.

Dave hears what can only be Julian's large hand clapping against the meat of Noel's arse. It snaps Noel out of his Hitcher monologue. He laughs in delighted, horny surprise, his voice thick and scratchy. "Jesus, Ju, do that again, you fucking filthy boy."

_Please don't._

He does. Of course he does.

Noel chokes out, "Har-" and Julian already knows what he wants, where he was going. He gives Noel a good smack, firmer than before. 

Of course they'd do character voices during sex, of course they'd share the same freakish mindreading connection offstage that they do on. It seems to be stronger with Noel balls deep inside Julian, the smacks of the headboard against the wall punctuated by Julian's hand on Noel's arse sounding like some type of demented rhythm orchestra. 

Dave sighs. They really could go on like this all night, recapping their dirty talk afterwards like they discuss the banter between them after a gig until the words and the noises and the sighs and the moans knit together into a horrendous sex tapestry even more suffocating than the Bollo suit. The fucking Bollo suit that’s hotter than taking a dip in a lake of fire warmed by the kindly rays of the sun. The fucking Bollo suit that Dave’s supposed to climb into tomorrow and stand on stage in, next to these two idiots, who won’t shut up and go to sleep tonight because they’re too busy fucking each other into the future. 

Dave feels sweat break out on the back of his neck.

At least it sounds like Noel's close again, Julian's hands steady on his arse even as the banging of the headboard starts to get erratic. 

"Go on," Julian tells him, at the same time he raggedly tells Julian, "Ju’n, don't you dare."

Dave's muddled brain struggles to work out what the fuck they're talking about, and why he's been placed in this room, and why he isn't tucked up in his bed in his flat at home, snoozing in the blue calm peaceful dim light with not a care in the world. 

He understands when Noel comes with an explosive shout, one final smack to his arse doing him in. The headboard stops rocketing against the wall. The wet sound of him pulling out of Julian comes immediately after, followed by a hair-curling moan from Julian.

_Why._

"Christ, Fielding," Julian groans. "Fucking use that mouth of yours."

Noel doesn't need the direction, it sounds, if the wet, slurping, sucking noises are anything to go by. 

“Fuck,” Julian gasps. “That’s it, Fielding, suck.”

Somehow it’s worse, Julian calling him “Fielding” as he finishes with his cock in Noel’s mouth. It makes Dave’s skin crawl when Noel makes some indeterminate noise around him, although it’s clearly a pleasurable one. It feels like an entire swarm of ants are on him when Julian groans and bellows Noel’s first name, low and tortured. 

The wet pop as Noel slides off is disgusting music to his ears. Dave breathes a sigh of relief. He’s exhausted. Twice for both of them; they have to be exhausted too. That has to be it. They’ll clean up again and go to sleep. He’s done his time, done his penance, paid his dues. Sleep is waiting for him, too, if he can calm the fuck down enough to get there. 

“Ju’n?”

Dave’s eyes snap shut. His lips tense into a straight, flat line. He is going to sleep, come hell or high water, or-

Through broken pants, Noel asks, "Should we work some of that into the show, Ju-yin?"

The fucking conversation that he couldn't escape earlier is back. “Yeah, sure, why not?" he wants to shout through the walls. "Maybe you could get all your demonic sexual urges out on stage and let me have some fucking peace, you pair of cocksucking idiots."

“I don’t know,” Julian says. “Don’t know if I could handle you saying that… on stage.”

Dave hates how well he can picture the slide of Noel’s expression into that horny grin he wears when he’s feeling especially cheeky. “Think you’d get a stiffy?” Dave hears the bed creaking, pictures Noel wiggling closer to Julian. “Stage wood?” he asks like a kid asks after a present. “That’d be hilarious, Ju. You trying to hide an erection while everyone was watching us. Yeah, imagine that! And then I could suck you off backstage while—”

Noel is cut off. Dave hates to think that it’s by Julian’s mouth, but he is glad that he’s shut up, so he takes it as a win. There is the sound of shifting sheets and low moans, and Dave starts to become concerned, but, this time, it doesn’t escalate. Noel yawns in between a kiss, and then he makes a contented kind of purr. 

“Feels good, Ju-yin. Your fingers in my hair like that.”

“Shh,” Julian says. “We should sleep a bit.”

“Mmm,” Noel hums agreeably. “Tomorrow…” 

“Tomorrow,” Julian agrees around a yawn of his own.

Dave listens carefully. All he can hear is silence. Blessed, blessed silence. 

He closes his eyes and rolls onto his side, waiting for sleep to claim him.

Ridiculous, absurd. Trumpet cocks and good boys and the fucking lot. God. Those two absolute bastards. Dave is still thinking about how much he hates the pair of them when he finally falls asleep.

His alarm sounds far too soon. They have to be on the road for nine, and it’s seven-thirty now. That gives him enough time to shower, shave, and have breakfast before he has to get back on the bus. He is, predictably, exhausted.

And, apparently, still fucking cursed.

Something thumps against the wall. Not the headboard, it’s not so much a thwack as it is a thud, but something. Something that apparently enjoys being shoved against the wall. Dave glares at the ceiling, at the cracks in it that weren’t there yesterday, disbelieving. Nothing short of an act of God could possibly have granted either of those two idiots with another erection.

Dave doesn’t believe it. Can’t fathom it.

And yet…

Noel laughs a breathless sort of laugh, the kind that sounds like it belongs on a couple’s honeymoon. Hysterically, Dave wonders if the wedding party the hotel was booked out with was Noel and Julian’s. 

“So, you like the pants?” Noel asks.

Dave’s eyes slide toward the door of the hotel room, wanting to know if it can believe this shit.

“Mmm,” Julian agrees. “Don’t really fit you though, do they?”

Noel giggles again, “Little small in front, yeah.” Noel gasps, his breath catches in the back of his throat, then there is a deep, appreciative hum from Julian. There is a long moment of lip smacking. “So? Can we, Ju’n? Please?”

“One more time, before we get back on the bus,” Julian rumbles indulgently. “If we’re quick, we won’t even run late.” There is a sound of a body being flipped, of arms and knees bumping against plaster. A moan. Julian takes a deep breath, huffs it out along with the words, “God, your arse is incredible.”

What’s really incredible, Dave thinks, is that he hasn’t offed himself with a hairdryer in the hotel room bathtub. That’s what’s fucking incredible.

The other thing that Dave hates, and yet can’t escape, is a certain, inconvenient state that he’s woken up in. And he extra hates it when Noel makes _a noise_ that sounds like it’s ripped right off the track of a porno and there is an unfortunate response from his downstairs bits.

One of the nice things about being off the bus for a night is always the opportunity to take care of some personal business without having to be extra quiet and careful. Of course, Noel and Julian have taken that to the absolute extreme, but Dave, sweet, considerate, won’t-keep-his-mates-up-all-night-with-marathon-sex-sessions Dave isn’t immune to the temptation of completing a wank in privacy.

He doesn’t want to do it now, though. Not with what is happening (again) next door.

“Ungh,” Noel says against the wall, “Christ, Ju-yin, I want you so much.” He sounds so desperate, so unable to believe it, so completely overcome with raw, impossible lust.

Dave’s cock twitches. He grinds his teeth and hates. He just fucking hates. Everything.

Julian chuckles low in his throat. He sounds quite pleased with himself this early in the morning. Dave’s glad at least two of the three of them fucking well are. 

“Alright, you can have me. Come on, you know what you need to do.”

He hears arms bracing, huffed, excited breaths against the wall. Christ, they’re so thin he can hear Noel’s toes gripping the fucking hideous pile of the carpet.

Dave winces. He feels like he’s in a stupor, like he’s one of those buffoons he’d yell at on the screen if he was watching a horror flick. “Don’t stay there, you fucking idiot, move! No, don’t- god, why are you so unbelievably thick? Get out of there before it’s too late, you massive plonker!”

Yeah. Right. He’ll just take his own advice and waddle out of this cursed ground and down the hall, smiling and waving and holding the Bollo head in front of his massive, throbbing erection, no worries. 

He really is harder than he’s been in days, months even, an eleven on a scale of one to ten, and he hates it so damn much. 

He hates it even more when the next noise out of Noel is a shocked squeak. 

“Ah! Careful,” he giggles. 

Christ. Even his giggles sound aroused. 

“Ju, not so hard! You’re gonna leave marks,” he pouts. “You know how easy I bruise.” He doesn’t sound that upset, truth be told. 

Julian’s voice is a suave, silky leer when he unclamps his teeth from the muscle of Noel’s arse cheek. “Like ripe summer fruit. Come on, now, stay still.”

His voice wraps down and around Dave’s ear canals like diaphanous curtains blowing in a warm breeze. It takes Dave aback. It makes him shiver. He whispers a “shut the fuck up and ignore them” to his cock when it lets him know it’s still present and ready for attention. 

The noises that follow are horrid. Noel sounds like an overclocked fruit machine zapped with ten thousand volts of pure electricity, zinging out moans and whimpers and half-choked “please”es and “yes”es and even one particularly long “hnnnng” at lightning speed. The sound of what Julian’s doing to him is even worse, though. It sounds like a vat of fucking jelly being put through an industrial shredder, all wet slurping sucking noises like some suctiony tentacled creature slopping through the depths of an ancient slime.

Julian pulls back to get his breath and tell Noel to get his hand off his cock, and it makes Noel’s whimpers sound like a chorus of angels in comparison. 

And then.

“Don’t stop, come on. Give me beard burn, anything, just lick me,” Noel hisses petulantly, his offending hand smacking against the wall. “Eat me like an ice lolly, Ju-yin.” There’s an accompanying thump as he rests his head, presumably to stick his arse further out to reach Julian’s waiting tongue-

No. No, no, no, no, no, no, no.

Dave’s surprised Julian’s got any saliva left in his mouth; his has certainly gone fucking dry. It’s enough to tell Noel, “Come on, you’re ready.”

Dave’s not ready. His cock is ready, but he’s not. His cock is a traitor that should be taken outside and shot for deserting him, yet being oh-so-very-present at the same time. 

There’s shuffling, and heavy breathing from Noel, and fabric rustling. For a brief moment, Dave has hope, when the three sweetest words in the English language are spoken by Mr. Julian Barratt Pettifer, ladies and gentleman.

“Where’s the lube?” 

Noel keens. “Christ, I don’t know, don’t ask me that now. At least let me-”

“Stay there,” Julian says, and Noel whines, pitiful as a wide-eyed puppy wanting to be picked up and cuddled.

Dave hears Julian drop back to his hands and knees heavily, rummaging under the bed and then through what Dave imagines is a pile of clothing, Noel’s tiny pants crowning it. Unless they’re still hooked around one of his ankles.

Jesus. Why is he thinking like this? There’s hope. There’s still hope. They won’t find it, he’ll finish Noel off and then stick the both of them in the shower, and Dave will still have enough time to have a quiet wank and then a shower of his own. A nice long one, good enough to have a quiet cry.

His dick strains against his pants in anticipation, and in one frustrated movement, he kicks the duvet off of him.

God, his hand’s so close, he can feel the warmth-

No. No fucking way. Just. Stop. Wait. Be patient.

It’s sounding more and more like Julian’s search is unsuccessful, and for the first time in the past twelve hours, Dave feels happiness. Noel, on the other hand, sounds like he might explode as Julian looks through the sheets again, flapping them back onto the foot of the bed dramatically. He hears Julian’s foot come into contact with the open flap of a suitcase. 

Yes. Good. Fantastic. He’s moving away from Noel. Maybe if they can get a certain distance apart, the weird magnetic sexual forcefield that results in Noel nearly in Julian’s lap every time they’re together can be broken.

“Ju,” Noel gasps, “c’mere an’ check behind the headboard. It might… it might’ve fallen.”

Dave lies as still as a corpse. He wills it not to be there when Julian puts a shoulder to the bedframe and shoves.

Noel’s exhale is giddy. 

Dave is in despair when he hears the cap click open.

“Hmm. We must’ve used more than I thought,” Julian says, and Dave holds on to his hope for one brief, fleeting moment. It dazzles through his body like sunlight dancing on ocean waves, and sends a pulse of delight to his dick.

Then he hears Julian’s hand slicking his cock. His voice is lazy and pleased. “Still plenty for tonight, though.”

It was always too good to be true.

Not even the promise of a deferred bumming (or two) is appealing to Noel in the moment. “Ju,” he breathes, “please. It’s not fair, you get to touch yourself and I can’t-”

Dave hears footsteps and then Noel’s voice cuts off just around the time he imagines Julian pushes into him. 

He can't believe they're doing this to him. They're supposed to be his mates, his brothers. 

Well. He can believe Noel; he’s a horny little fucker to begin with, and when he’s around Julian, it multiplies a thousandfold, like… hot sex lava spilling out of a horny volcano. But Julian’s supposed to be wise and prudent and good in a crisis. He’s not supposed to fucking _cause_ them. 

Dave’s trapped. He’s trapped between a rock and a hard place. The fact that his brain’s scrambled enough to go for that stupid pun when he’s got a carnival of horror going on next door, thrusts and groans starting up in earnest, just proves how badly he needs to get off, to clear his mind. 

NO. No, he does not. He most certainly, most emphatically, most assuredly. Does. Not. Need. To. Get. Off. Right. Now. 

He needs to get off, right now.

Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it. Dave shoves his pants down and pulls his shirt up to clear it out of the blast zone. He spits in his hand, then seizes his cock grimly.

“ _Ohfuckyes_ ,” Noel howls like a stupid git. Julian grunts behind him like a truffle pig genetically programmed to scent out orgasms. Dave’s cock is hot and heavy in his hand. He gives it a cursory stroke, then another, then he’s shredding on it like it’s a guitar and he’s Yngwie fucking Malmsteen. 

He thinks that if he makes it fast, then at least _it will have been fast_. No other good can come from any of this. He’s going to fuck his own hand and hate the world and when it’s done, he’s going to hate everything just a little bit more than he did before. He needs it to be fast, not because he wants to feel satisfaction, he just wants something to _end_.

Maybe, if he wanks fast enough he can build enough friction to set the fucking hotel on fire, burn the place to the ground, bring them all down with him in his demented, sexually charged fury.

Dave can hear every breath and slide of skin, every slap of naked flesh like it’s happening in the fucking room with him. Why even bother with walls, he wonders insanely. Why not just have the two of them fucking each other right in front of him? That way, he could see the smug fucking look on Julian’s face as he listens to Noel chant a fucking paean to his _mighty trouser cobra_ , could see Noel’s cheeks flushed and shining with sweat, his eyelashes fluttering like a pair of horned up butterflies in a kamikaze mating dance, while he spews stream of consciousness nonsense that would make Freud cream his pants out of sheer intellectual curiosity.

Dave tries, really, really tries not to synchronize to their rhythm, but it’s impossible.

In a way, it’s like Julian is fucking both of them, he thinks on the very edge of reason. He’s setting the pace for all three of them, his hips slamming into Noel, Noel slamming against the wall, Dave’s hand following along with a dancer’s addiction to rhythm. Noel or Julian or Noel and Julian together are wanking Noel’s cock. He can hear a hand sliding over it, the wet squelches only slightly quieter than the wet squelches his own hand is producing. 

Probably, they’re doing it together, their fingers laced together, while they moan into one another’s mouths, sharing a sloppy kiss like a couple of absolute cock sucking, arse ramming, dick bag, _fuckheads_.

Dave has never been more furious in his life than he is at that moment, the sexual rage burning through him hot enough to scorch. It doesn’t feel like a crackle of anticipation building at the root of his cock, it feels like an enraged terrier growling at the end of a too-short chain. Let it loose, let it loose, he thinks to himself, but the little fucker just won’t go.

He’s so fucking close, the pound of his own blood in his ears finally fucking loud enough to blot out all other sound, but he just can’t fucking—

“Dave!” 

Dave practically screams. Motherfucking Noel Fielding is at his door. “Mate, hurry up! We gotta get downstairs and get going, yeah?”

There is a smack that Dave assumes has come from Julian’s hand landing on Noel’s arse. He’s well familiar with the sound tapestry by now. Smack, cheeky giggle. Fuck.

“Get a wriggle on,” Julian calls. “We’ve got to be out of here in five.”

Dave looks at his clock. It’s eight forty-five.

He doesn’t have time to shower. He doesn’t have time to shave. He hasn’t even got time to finish his wank. He punches his mattress with his fist and leaps out of bed, “Do we? Do we need to go, you fucking _twats_?” he snaps.

There is silence out in the hall. “He’s certainly woke up on the wrong side,” Julian says quietly.

“Mattress was well lumpy,” Noel says. “Probably just didn’t sleep well, yeah?”

Julian hums agreement. “He’s probably going to bitch about the suit the whole bus ride.”

“Oh, fuck, there’s something I don’t need to hear again. _This suit’s so hot, feels like Satan’s nuts in here_ ,” Noel mocks.

Julian chuckles, shushes Noel. He clears his throat, “We’ll see you on the bus, mate.” 

Dave hears them retreat down the hallway.

Fuck everything.

They're both milling about in the lobby, looking at each other with big dumb moony eyes when Dave stomps down the stairs with his shirt half-buttoned, dragging his suitcase behind him. Of course the tiny elevator was out of commission. 

_Probably because they fucked on the way down. Probably slammed against the fucking… what the fuck's it called... the fucking… instrument panel so hard it broke._

Dave tosses his key packet in the general direction of the reception desk, rounds the corner to the front doors with his head down, and immediately smacks face-first into a warm, bountiful mountain of Rich. 

If the volume of his voice is any indication, Rich is _thrilled_ to see him. His first three words elongate out like the greased slide on a trumpet. 

_Trumpet cock_ , his memory whispers to him. _Well-greased trumpet cock_.

 _Shut up or I'll hurt you_ , he whispers back.

"Oh, Davey, swooo-ooo-ooon. Imagine running into you, here, and now, in the present moment. Literally! Running into you!"

It sounds like Rich is a second away from clasping his hands together and posing like a cherub, kicking a leg up like that stupid randy fucker does every night on stage when he kisses that other stupid randy fucker. Rich ducks his head and peers into Dave's face instead.

"You look like a shit sandwich pressed in a hot waffle iron," he drawls.

Dave's saved from having to respond to that lovely, probably accurate description when Mike sidles up, sipping out of a styrofoam cup. 

Mike gives him a look.

"What happened to you?"

"Don't. Just… don't fucking ask," he sighs.

From across the lobby, Noel chooses that moment to cackle at something Julian's said, and Dave winces as if he's had ice water dumped down the front of his trousers. 

Recognition dawns over Mike's features. He elbows Rich and nods at him and then Dave knowingly, then Rich nods at Mike knowingly and elbows him and nods at Dave wistfully, then they both nod at Dave in perfect synchronicity like they're all-knowing little puppets with their strings tangled up.

Dave's fed up with all of the adverbs and all of the secret nods, like it's some weird cult initiation ritual or something, and if they don't get the elbow-nod-elbow sequence just right, the planets will misalign for the next fifty fucktillion centuries. Or some shit like that. 

"Could you two jokers please just come out with it?" he huffs.

Mike shrugs and addresses Rich.

"He finally heard them going at it all night, then."

Dave short circuits. He knows it's not Mike's fault, or Rich's, but he's got so much… _energy_ pent up, it has to come out somehow.

"Next time we're short of rooms, I'll sleep on the sidewalk or in the hall or on the roof of the fucking bus," Dave spits.

He walks to the bus and trips on the way there, because of fucking course he does, then gets onboard. He throws his bag up onto his bunk and crawls in behind it, then pulls the curtain closed.

The tiny, dark space is quiet, for a moment. Then, it’s Mike, Noel, Julian and Rich, getting on the bus, Noel repeating whatever idiotic nonsense about _lumpy mattresses_ that he’d said to Julian in the hall.

“Yeah, that’s definitely what it was,” Rich says as he steps on the bus. “Lumpy, bumpy, _humpy_ mattress, keeping him awake all night. Dontcha think, Mike?”

Mike doesn’t get a chance to say anything. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Noel asks.

"Lumpy mattresses," Rich shrieks in a baby voice, and Dave feels another shard of his soul dissolving in the darkness of his bunk. "Lumpy like sacks of potatoes. Sexy sex potatoes! Let me feel your sex potatoes, Noely!"

There's the sound of scuffling fabric and Noel cackling. Dave hears him fake a moan, then shove Rich. Dave knows it's fake, because he's spent the last day of his miserable life hearing the full range of the real ones.

"Get off!" Noel giggles, and Rich's voice drops down smooth and suave, ready to seduce or call bingo, or both. "I bet you did," he says. "You _and_ your roomie too," Rich growls.

No. Not one more thing. Nothing else today. 

Dave jams his hand into his suitcase and pulls his tangled headphones out and then jams them into his ears. The scuffling outside stops midway when he speaks in a measured tone. He makes it almost all the way through without his voice rage-cracking.

"One of you stupid fuckers. Bring me four batteries. Right now. Put them in your hand, stick your hand in the bunk, and then leave."

Dave waits in silence. He hears Noel and Rich separating, and then the thump of heels on carpet, and the squeak of a drawer.

It's Noel's hand that creeps past the curtain a few breaths later, and Dave's nearly expecting the batteries to come wrapped in a scrap of paper with a scrawled "sorry x" written on it, his approach is so meek.

Dave snatches them, swaps the old ones out for fresh, and presses play. He’s enveloped in a snarl of sound, and when he calms his breathing, he’s asleep before the key turns in the bus ignition.

He gets through the show that night, sweating in the fucking ape suit as per usual, stomping backstage after their final bows and scraping his greasepaint off like he has a personal vendetta against it. 

The drive to their night’s hotel is short. Dave shoots everyone daggers the entire time. By some act of a merciful god, there are enough rooms for everyone at check-in, and he gets assigned the one next to Julian, and Noel’s is half a hallway down.

Good. Julian’s quiet. He’ll probably read some Russian poetry and then go the fuck to sleep like a normal human man, now that the two of them have been separated. 

Dave dumps his suitcase at the foot of his bed and locks his door. He’s finally, _finally_ going to have some peace and quiet and privacy and sleep. And fuck all of them, he’s enjoying himself tonight. 

He sits down at the edge of the bed and the mattress is just the right balance between soft and firm. The sheets aren’t stiff and they smell of freshly washed cotton. He flicks on the telly, and miracle of miracles, the channels change, and there’s a nature doc that he’s been wanting to watch starting in twenty.

And he hasn’t heard one peep from next door. Not even the thump of Julian’s gigantic fucking feet in his gigantic fucking boots.

Dave’s jubilant. He’s celebrating. He calls down to the front desk, orders room service, and takes an extra-long shower. Even the little soaps seem to smile up at him. 

The food’s better than decent, it’s fucking delicious, and when he’s done eating, he sinks into the pillow behind him like it's made of a fucking mystical comfort cloud. Christ, it feels good, and the aircon’s running at just the right temperature after a sweaty night in the Bollo suit, and he could die happy right here, right now, sounds of the rainforest buzzing soft out of the telly.

Just five minutes of shuteye, and then he’ll get up and brush his teeth. The croak of frogs starts to lull him to sleep.

Then the aircon clicks off, the last hush of air rolling through the vent like a sighed breath, and he’s right at the edge of dreamland.

And then he hears them through the vent over the head of his bed, like echoes through a tunnel. His eyes shoot open in horror.

"Do you really think we should be doing this? Dave’s right next door..." 

Dave would kiss Julian on the mouth for the consideration he’s offering were he not in another room, and if Dave didn’t know for a fact the horrific places that mouth has been.

Noel though… Noel is a bloody cunt. "Why not?” he purrs. “No way he can hear us in this place, is there? And I can be quiet."

That's the biggest fucking lie Dave has ever heard in his life.

"Can we try that thing out?" Whispers now. "I brought the... you know..."

Julian laughs. "You carried it down the hall with you, hanging out of your pockets?"

“Yeah,” Noel replies, the slightest flick of sound, like a feather licking a nipple. Dave can well imagine his hips rocking as he tucks one foot behind his calf. No doubt, that’s the pose. That tarty little _come on and take me pose_.

Dave prays it won’t work, prays that Julian will stay strong. Strong and considerate. Please, Christ, please, _don’t let it work_. 

But it works.

“Christ, you’re a slag,” Julian growls. “Get over here.”

Dave groans. 

It's going to be a long night.

It's going to be a long tour.

It's going to be a long life, trying to forget everything he's heard.

He’s got such a fucking bad feeling about this.


End file.
